When I was getting to Trefilov’s place, I felt a new wave of fear come over me. Maybe, like deep inside I was already feeling how it would all turn out, but — to just cut the shit for a second — I wasn’t afraid of the consequences, but that Sergei Igorich really would turn out to be a homo, and caught in a corner, he’d do something really bad to me. He had told us himself in wrestling about stuff like that that had happened, and kept saying that none of us, no matter what, should ever get into a car or go to an apartment of someone we didn’t know.
A few more times, I sniffed in the smell of the bread, which was getting cold. Then I went into his building, walked up to the third floor, and felt the doorbell sink it as I rang it. You could hear steps on the other side of the door.
“Who’s there?” asked Trefilov.
“Sergei Igorich, it’s me, Nagorskikh.”
“Kolya? Has something happened?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s very important.”
“Kolya, I can’t just now, I’m not alone. Could you give me a call?”
“We can’t really talk about this on the phone. I’ll be quick.”
Why didn’t I guess right away? If Trefilov was talking to me through the door, it had to mean something was up. I could have just said whatever, like I’m not coming to first period tomorrow ‘cause I had to go for a fluorography, or ask him for the name the knife for martial arts class I should buy at the sporting goods store.
But I didn’t catch his signal and kept ringing. Trefilov had to open the door. I didn’t like the look on his face — all strained, red, his hair all messed up, like right after a hard sparring.
“May I come in?”
“No. Tell me, but quickly …”
“Sergei Igorich, Proshin has it in his head that you’re … well … you know, one of those …”
He didn’t have time to put his finger on his lips, or even to shush me — I heard this loud, piercing noise and it smelled of ozone all of a sudden. Trefilov’s eyes rolled up, and he fell. I didn’t get to move a muscle either before something sharp got jabbed into my neck, someone hit me hard, and my legs went soft under me … Somebody grabbed me and hauled me into Trefilov’s apartment.
When I woke up, I was duct-taped to an office chair. Some man I didn’t know was leaning over me.
“So who are you?” he asked.
“Nikolai Nagorskikh, eighth grade, regular high school number seven, head instructor Sergei Igorich Trefilov.”
“Why’d you come here?”
“To warn the head teacher about somebody planning to kill him. Please, sir, at home they’re probably wondering where I am …”
“We’ll take care of that. Where’d you get the information about the plan to kill him?”
“Fedka Proshin said he’d do it.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I didn’t think about it, I was in a hurry.”
The man looked up to somewhere behind me, then back at me again.
“And why did this Fedka of yours all of a sudden decide to kill his head teacher?”
“‘Cause he’s an idiot,” I said, and I wasn’t lying at all.
“You should’ve reported him to the school administration.”
“I …”
Somebody boxed my ears — not hard, but it still hurt.
“Kid, it looks to me like there’s something you don’t understand. How come nobody from your class came to warn the teacher, and instead called the police right away — but you did the opposite?”
“I was in a hurry …”
Another hit. Tears spurted from my eyes.
“Tell me, did you know that Trefilov was a fugitive from law?”
“No.”
Bam.
“I didn’t know, that’s just what Fedka said!” I said, through tears and snot.
“What kind of relationship do you have with Trefilov?”
Bam.
“Don’t hit me! He’s my teacher.”
Bam.
“I repeat the question: what kind of relationship —”
“He’s my teacher!”
Bam. Bam. Bam again. Something started leaking out of my ears. The man raised his hand, like to say that’s enough.
“I repeat the question. Think before you —”
“He’s my teacher!” I yelled, my voice breaking into a shriek.
I hunched up, expecting another blow, but there was nothing this time.
“OK. Let’s say you’re telling the truth. Who put it in your head to warn Trefilov?”
“Nobody, I thought of it myself …”
The interrogation lasted ‘til night. I told them everything the way it was, that Trefilov was a good teacher, that everybody respected him, and that nobody knew anything and couldn’t know anything. They knocked out nearly all my teeth, ripped out a couple’a nails, kept asking me about some gay underground, if I liked taking it up the ass, and what was my grade in sex lab. I told them the truth: I didn’t know, I didn’t like it, I got an A.
Later on they peeled me off the armchair and threw me into a corner, where Sergei Igorich and his maid Sasha were huddled together. Obviously the cops were waiting to see if anybody else would show up. Me, I just prayed that Zheka had called about Trefilov right after I left. I hope he did. But whatever happened, I have no way of checking.
While they were waiting, the three that organized the trap — the man that had been interrogating me and two others — took turns fucking Sasha the maid. Trefilov kept trying to get up, but the cops would easily knock him back down with their tasers. Sasha took ‘em on without a peep, one by one and all three together. Sergei Igorich quietly cried.
When it got totally dark outside — at our latitude that happens no earlier than 11 in April — we heard brakes screeching to a stop outside the windows, below.
“So, Paramonov,” said the one who had been interrogating me, “let’s pack up the three of them.”
“Leave the kid alone, you bastards,” said Trefilov.
“Article 121, Section 3, Clause 1,” said the cop. “Hey, kid, were you a good student? You know what that article says?”
“‘Aiding, abetting, and harboring those suspected of sodomy is punishable by life imprisonment or surgical castration,’” I answered.
“Q.E.D.”
They gagged up our mouths with some kind of rubber plugs, pulled these thick black cloth sacks over our heads, and led us out of the apartment. Riding in the car I wondered which one should I pick: life sentence or castration? Well, you don’t need me to tell you I didn’t really have much of a choice.
What happened to me in the general prisoners’ cell, I won’t say — you yourself know real good what all goes down in there. No, don’t look away — I forgave everybody for everything a long time ago. When you think about it, those people were all afraid of me a lot more than I hated them.
They kept at me for about a week, and then when I was all in despair and stuck my head in the shitter to kill myself, they saved me and sent me to a hospital, to a private room. When I felt a little better, and my tongue lost the shit-taste, and my nose lost the shit-smell, they dressed me up in regular clothes and took me to an interrogation. Though of course, it wasn’t exactly an interrogation. It was an office all done up in stucco, and some old investigator was waiting for me.
“Have a seat, Nagorskikh,” he said.